Hand of God
by HollyPup
Summary: My own parody of the wonderful literature of the Stand, focusing mostly on the journey of my own character. PLEASE R&R!


Night was a heavenly thing during the summer of 1985. The summer of Captain Trips. Only under the velvet blanket of twilight the terrible reality of the plague could not affect the minds of those still capable of sleep. Only in the darkness could the harsh images of the disease not ravage the souls of those few who were immune. The lucky and unlucky. The blessed and the damned.

It was midnight, but time was irrelevant in this world of the super flu. The hour of the day had stopped meaning anything. Not even to the soggy, form of a person huddled tightly beneath a wholly intact awning of a dank and deserted street side shop. The mass of flesh, hair, and shredded clothes was surrounded by fruit, long-since rotted in the punishing July sun. Yet to be explored on the inside, the building still housed the owner of the store and his wife, along with a few customers scattered amongst the aisles and holding a wide variety of groceries. All of them were dead. Everyone was dead. Everyone except the person lying outside of the shop.

Everyone except Bree, who woke up cold and wet, like she had every night for a long time, smelling of moldy oranges and mildew. Her lanky body stretched out to its full length as her cloudy grey eyes saw the sun hanging just beginning to peak above the horizon. Reaching a hand up, pale instead of the tan she was used to in the summer, she tried running her fingers through her oily hair. It didn't work that well. With her ribs protruding from her stained shirt, it was almost painful to exercise her arms high above her head. What her shirt was stained with was indiscernible. There was only a small thrift store here in the naturally under-populated town of Freedom, Oklahoma.

Freedom, Bree thought, that was a laugh. She had wondered since she was a kid what the name meant. She knew what 'freedom' meant, but why give a town such a name was her question. Freedom, to her, was more then being able to do what you wanted when you wanted. More then not being disciplined by your parents because they were all getting drunk at the small pub on the south city limits, run by a wizened, old man with hair like snow, and who looked like he could keel over during a shot of his famed whiskey. Now, the name held an even greater meaning. The few businesses strewn about the small town were empty, at least of their patrons. All the food and other products still sat upon the shelves, waiting to be picked up by anyone who still had the strength to do so.

The hour was just after dawn, but of course Bree, a dark-haired woman in her very early twenties, could have cared less. She had stopped bothering with broken watches and unset clocks weeks ago. Weeks, no, that didn't sound right. As she stood up from the ground, kneading the knots out of neck with her knuckles, Bree realized it had not been that long ago that she had been shopping in the very store she had been lying in front of. The owner had always been nice to her, giving her free bag full of food on Saturdays when he closed for his day off on Sunday. She was sure he could tell she was homeless by her unkempt hair and torn clothes, but he never let on about his knowledge. He was dead though. They were all dead.

Sighing in a way that thoroughly suggested that Bree needed to get more sleep then what she had gotten the previous night, she stretched her arms, reaching her hands way up above her head. It wasn't her fault really. Her God forsaken dreams had kept her up yet again. They had started just after their all ready under-populated town went ghost. They changed with each night, but as a small favor from the Almighty, they had adopted a sort of…pattern, so that Breed was not surprised by their own brand of horror. Last night had been one of the better ones. It was the one set in a small town much like Freedom. A small town in Nebraska…

_The corn was always tall and hard to see through. The stalks stand higher then Bree, and sometimes she even tries to look over them just to see if she can, but never succeeds. As great an obstacle as it is, sooner or later the maze of maize ends, and she finds herself standing in front of a, now, very familiar, time worn house. The wood used to build the house was no scuffed and scratched from the innumerable people who have walked, and climbed all over the house. The roof wasn't much better. The porch was the worst of it, but none of it mattered to Bree. She just liked the feeling she got when she neared the small stoop. She felt safe, and warm, like all the horrors of her past could not reach her as long as she stayed close to the home place. _

"Well hello child," _came the raspy, but oh so calming, voice of the one the dream seemed to be wanting Bree to listen to, and come to love. _

"Who are you?" _she remembered asking as she stepped even nearer to the ancient house. That had been the very first dream of this sort. She no longer asked, because she now knew quite well whose voice she was hearing._

"My name is Abigail Freemantle," Bree said, in an attempt to imitate the voice as she remembered it replying, but failing horribly, "But folks around these parts just call me Mother Abigail. I'm one-hundred and six years old and I still make my own bread." She smiled as her mind shifted back into recalling the dream from the preceding night.

_The little, old black woman had sat on her porch, rocking back and forth in her creaking rocker. The chair looked almost as old as she was. Her dark wrinkles pervaded her hands and face, looking not unlike the uneven waves of the ocean. Wise, old eyes stared at Bree, still bright as though Mother Abigail were still as young as the girl standing in front of her. Alas, she was not, and there was no sense in thinking she was. She had a job to do, and it wasn't doing anyone any good to daydream about the seasons she spent frolicking around without a cane at her side. _

"Hello Mother Abigail," _Bree said with a soft grin. Oh, how she already loved this woman._

"Its time for you to leave, child," _Mother Abigail told her as she continued the steady rhythm of her chair, _"In the morning you are to gather your supplies, and leave this town. Go east, until you meet up with the one that will take you the rest of the way." _Bree's face fell at these words. Sure her life in Freedom was not the best or was even a life at all, but it was still her home._

"Mother Abigail I'm not ready," _she pleaded, and would have continued, but the old woman's face had grown stern, her mouth set in a frown._

"God wants you to leave in the morning," _she said, her aged voice firm with authority, _"I know this town meant to you, child, but you must leave it behind otherwise you will die with the others. You will not survive if you stay. Gods will is for you to go further."

_That was when everything went dark. The bright night sky darkened, and in its place were ominous, rolling black clouds. There was the sound of thunder but no lightning, and Bree looked up to heavens that now looked as though hell had changed its location. She backed up; her stormy eyes a torrent of fear. She looked back to Mother Abigail, for guidance, comfort, anything. The old woman merely stared at her, as though unaware of the sudden darkness._

"He is coming your way, child," _she said gravely_, "The Devils Imp is heading in your direction. You must go now, before the Prince of Darkness can suffocate you with his hellish evil. Go NOW!"

Bree had woken up just then, and now she stood staring at the slowly rising sun, the memory of her dream ended. The fear that had been held within the depths of her eyes in her dream world was now replaced with determination. She didn't want to go, and wasn't even sure she could. But she had to try, because Mother Abigail had told her to. Also…the threat of the Dark Man had strongly motivated her, almost more so then the old woman. She had had dreams about Him. They were her least favorite. Full of dark, horrifying things that made her want to just curl up into a ball and forget she had just seen anything. But that was impossible. She could never forget the things in these dreams.

_It was always dark. The sky was so heavy with clouds, not a single star could shine through the smog. Bree would have liked to just see one star, and then maybe she wouldn't be so frightened as she trod down the dirt path, a small dust cloud billowing out behind her only to be enveloped by the twilight. This road was familiar to her. She had walked down it every day of her life since she could remember. It led to the market that was held once a month here in Freedom. Bree loved the market. She would go just to smell Mrs. Thompson's fresh-baked bread. However, the market was not open at night, so what was she doing on this road._

_As it turned out, the market was still up, but there was no sound of bustling shoppers. No distinctive yammering of people haggling prices of fresh produce and knitted scarves. Bree could not hear the barking of dogs that were some of the farmers' faithful pets protecting their booths while they were browsing around themselves. Bree remembered knowing each dog by the sound of their bark as the years went by. The market was dark now, though. It was cold, and all was silent. Dead silent._

_Now Bree started to freak out, not just in the dream, but when the realization of what she was sitting hit home, she began to toss in turn as she slept on. However, she would forever remain oblivious to this fact. In the dream though, her terror was very real and truculent. She remembered screaming at least once, and backing up with fear. Where had her happy market gone? There were no customers walking away, happy and content with their purchases. She could smell no whiff of the many delicious delicacies that the farmers wives would cook and let Bree sample for free to see if they were good enough. It was all gone, and Bree was frightened beyond belief. This market, this symbol that their home was really just a hick town, was one of her few stimulations for continued existence._

_There was a sudden crunching noise behind Bree as she continued to back up, and just the sound alone made her want to throw up, though, she wasn't even sure if that action was possible in dreams. She did remember gulping, loudly, and slowly turned around with her eyes closed. After a moment or two of whimpering, she carefully opened one eye, and immediately screamed again. A hand, an old, severed hand, smelling wildly of formaldehyde and constricted so badly by time, that Bree could count all the bones that made up its structure. She closed her eyes again and took a few, steadying deep breaths as she backed up the way she had come. Her breath was fast and wheezing. She felt incredibly dizzy._

All Bree wanted was to wake up, though as far as her dream self was concerned, she had no idea she was even dreaming. She just wanted to get out of here, and run far away from this horrible, retched place. Of course, she had been continuing to back up all this time, and just as she felt herself calm enough to get out of the dead market, she felt the back of her shoe collide with something rigid. This time she didn't even have to turn around before she screamed. Jumping forward she turned around at the same time, her grey eyes wide with fear. And her fear was wholly justified when she saw what she had almost stepped on. It was another hand, fully attached to the rest of its body. Bree stared back into eyes frozen open, never to be closed again until the day they rotted out of the skull that enclosed them. She bit down hard on her lip to hold in a loud whimper. She would have sworn at the feet of God that the body had just moved. But that wasn't possible...

"Stay away from her!" _came a shouting voice from the sagging mouth of the corpse. For the third time, Bree screamed shrilly, almost blowing out her own ear drums with its force. Leaping backwards, she tripped over the defunct form of a dog and cascaded to the muddy ground. Her hand scraped against the roughly hewn wood from a demolished booth and she winced as she looked back over to the cadaver cautiously. Had she just imagined it?_

"Stay away from her or you'll die like the others!" _it yelled again, for Bree did not feel right placing this thing with a gender. At least she knew she hadn't imagined it, though that wasn't a comforting thought anyway. She also knew in her mind and soul, that it was not really the body talking. It was...something else. Something more powerful then she could yet imagine. Suddenly, Bree wasn't so afraid of the market. It was what was inhabited the market now that scared her._

_ After another moment, during which she did not realize that her right hand was bleeding from contact with a loose nail, Bree stood up, now aware of her injured palm, and walked solemnly away. The market was gone. She would never again be able to think of it the same way again, but she could not let its destruction damage her will to live. On the contrary, she needed to use its death as motivation to go on. And with these heavy thoughts on her shoulders, she left the vicinity of the only place that had ever like home to her heart. Sighing with anguish at her loss, yet determination to avenge it, she trod back down the dirt road, holding her wounded hand with her other, and breathing in the crisp night air. She was no longer afraid, but angry with whatever force had destroyed her most cherished memories, tainted them. That was when the crow appeared, flapping its ebony wings violently just inches from her face, as though materializing from nowhere, cawing viciously in her face._

When Bree woke up, there really was a crow, pecking at the ground for a few meager scraps of food. After a moment of stunned terror she had scared away with a yell and wave of her hand. That was when she realized there was a scar on her right hand, directly across the rise of her palm...

It was time to go. Already she assumed the hour of the day to be close to seven in the morning, and Bree figured she had a long way to travel. She didn't know where she was going, but she supposed if Mother Abigail didn't think she could find it, she either wouldn't have sent her, or would have told her the name of the town she was to head to. At least she knew in which direction she would be traveling. With another resolute sigh, she turned to the shop behind her, took a deep breath, and plunged in, like a diver into cold water. Cold she felt, but it was incredibly dry in the small store. Gulping, and taking another, shuddering breath, Bree quickly grabbed a backpack, not even looking at any of the corpses littering the floor and counters. It was too painful. She probably had known all of them. She chose another store in town to gather supplies in, and after a half hour she had plenty of food for a few days travel, a map of Oklahoma, and two canteens: one full of water, the other of fruit juice. She was ready now, physically anyway. Mentally she still doubted her ability to leave her home.

_"The Devil's Imp is heading in your direction."_

That voice got her moving, quite quickly in fact, towards the city limits, just a few blocks down the road actually. Bree didn't look back, as she had though she might. No, she just kept walking swiftly east, away from the place that had kept her alive, away from the market that was now dead to her, away from the store with its owner that had treated her like everyone else even though she had no home and no family to call her own, away from Freedom.


End file.
